


False Truths

by Mohini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can tell yourself something often enough that it eventually becomes a believable sort of fallacy, and after that, there comes the time that it actually becomes indistinguishable from a truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Truths

Two years. It’s been two years since the last time we came to this place, and I had begun to believe that we had finally left it far enough behind us that we would not come here again. Life’s funny that way, really. You can tell yourself something often enough that it eventually becomes a believable sort of fallacy, and after that, there comes the time that it actually becomes indistinguishable from a truth. But it isn’t. It’s still nothing more than an illusion, and eventually, illusions have a way of fading out into the ether once more. 

There was no warning this time. In years past, there have been hints for weeks or even months before. A little too much distance in his eyes, a little too long a pause before response was all it took to give it away, to tell me to make preparations. It’s like knowing a hurricane is coming. You can’t prepare, not really, not ever completely, but you can damn well try. There was nothing this time. No sign that I would work a single hand beneath the waistband of his sleep shorts and find the too familiar ridge of a line of broken flesh. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and I made a choice that I will regret for a very long time. I said nothing. 

He tensed, waiting, I am certain, for me to drag his demons out into the bed with us, to demand explanation. I couldn’t make the words come. I wrapped my arms around his chest, pulled him close, kissed his neck and closed my eyes, locking away the tears that threatened behind shuttered eyelids. I could feel his breath, too deep, too carefully controlled. His fear wrapped around me and pulled the breath from my lungs, and I kept my silence still, running a hand up and down his chest, tracing the lines of his ribs, settling at his hip and holding on there. It took an eternity, or a moment, or some infinite time in between, but he drifted into sleep and the moment of crisis passed. 

Months came and went, and though I kept a closer than usual eye on him, there were no further marks. I checked the house over, looked in all the usual hiding places, and there were no carefully stashed blades, no mangled shaving razors missing their sharp components. I began to relax, to convince myself that it had been an illusion. We were safe. That demon had been put to rest, and it was gone, it had to be, we had gotten so far, so very far this time.

Winter has always been a hard time for us. He is a runner by nature, by absolute compulsion. Every day without fail, five miles are pounded out of the pavement, the treadmill, the indoor track. He has to do it, and no one wants to be within miles of him when he can’t. The snow lay heavy on the ground that year, great drifts of it that settled in and made plans to remain until spring. The treadmill in the basement whirred to life, and his breath could be heard, even, steady, deep in the early morning hours of each day. I waited, as I always have, to hear the sound of the shower upstairs to start the pot of industrial strength coffee, to toss a handful of fresh produce in the juicer, to place the tiny capsule beside his drink, the little pill that stands between him and self destruction, that bridges the gaping chasm in his brain chemistry to allow him to function. 

Still I tried to breathe easy, and when the snows began to melt, the weight began to fall from my shoulders; the fear began to ebb away. We had made it through another winter, another hateful, dark, cold winter and we were still here, still whole, still surviving. Spring came and with it the renewal of life, and the promises of hope that are part and parcel to it. 

That night, oh god above, that night, there was nothing, nothing at all to distinguish it from any other. I came up to bed to find him already in our room, seated in the wingback chair he teased me for purchasing. He looked up at me in silent acknowledgement of my presence. I will be forever grateful for the way the light of the table tamp hit his face, for the way it reflected from the nearly dried tear tracks on his sculpted cheekbones. I knelt before him, silently unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it from his body. In any other moment, it would have been captivating, exhilarating, hotter than hell, really, to see that beautiful body revealed in the low evening light. Instead, it was nothing but horror. A single pinpoint puncture mark at the crook of one elbow, but it might as well have been a gunshot wound. I placed a finger on it, feeling the texture of it, the warmth of his skin, before leaning forward to kiss it. 

I looked into his eyes, leaned in for a single kiss before pulling away. There were no words needed. We’ve been here before. I pulled out my phone, made the call, and quietly stepped away to retrieve a suitcase from the closet and fill it with what would be needed. He was gone within an hour, loaded into a privately hired car, destined for the sanctuary of my older brother’s home on the coast. I prayed, in the darkness of that night, that this time, this time would finally be our last journey down this road. 

Prayers, they say, aren’t always answered as we expect them to be. When the snows fell again, I knelt in the drift and placed a trembling hand on the cold granite before me. That night, after I kissed away his tears in our room as we waited for the car to come for him, that was the last time I prayed. My faith is broken, torn beyond repair, and now, as I rise and turn in a solemn half circle in the cold December air, I know, as I suppose I always have, that there is no one left to pray to.

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a bit experimental, if you will allow me that bit of freedom dear readers. The characters are, well, really whomever you want them to be. I leave it to you to give them the faces that they need to have for you. For me, they blend back and forth, from two men I think work beautifully paired with one another to the face of a friend from many, many years ago. Writing is catharsis, and in sharing this little experiment, I ask your indulgence on a night that I spent too many hours looking at old photos and remembering what once was.


End file.
